November 18, 2015

Sometimes when I think about the rest of my life, I start to freak out a little bit.  Just even typing that sentence made me want to freak out.  One day at a time.  One day at a time. 

Eight months later and still remnants to attend to...small details that only pop up way after-the-fact and take me back to my former life.  The law firm that started contacting me to get the small amount of money that Steve apparently still owed.  There is something in me that becomes so angry when they call.  It feels slimy the way they start into a sales pitch..."If you pay today, we can lower his balance by $50."

There are people who say that everything is negotiable.  And I know that statement is very true, but frankly, it pisses me off a bit, because there are individuals who aren't good at negotiating.  It shouldn't matter what time you call or what representative you get, the price tag should be the same for everyone.

Anyhoo...sorry for the diatribe.  I'm just irritated.  And ultimately irritated because no one will even provide me with a statement.  I've obviously never had this situation happen to me before, but if I'm going to pay it, don't I at least deserve to receive an accounting of the charges if I request it?

If anyone mentions probate or executor or estate again, I might need to go to the time-out mat myself.

It wasn't a bad day.  But it wasn't a good day either.  I was standing at the little hospital cafe today, and I looked over at the case that holds beverages.  Such a seemingly mundane thing...but I saw the whole milk and 2% milk and thought of Poppy...and then I saw the chocolate milk...

I had forgotten...and I suddenly remembered...

I was constantly getting milk for Steve during those last few months.  He couldn't get enough milk.  I would go to the grocery store and search for the newer brand of milk he requested, 'Fairlife.'  And he wanted chocolate milk too.  Lots of it.

And remembering those dark days made me kind of sad.

Out of this whole situation, I will never understand the purpose of those six months.  He was rightfully scared.  What really bothers me a lot is thinking of any mental anguish and suffering that he experienced during that time.

I hate thinking of him hurting.  And that is the most upsetting thing to me.  I think over and over and over to myself...I hope he didn't know...I hope he didn't know he was dying.  And that is when I cry most.  Why, oh why, did he have to go through that?    

I was there for him as much as I possibly could be, but he was heading on a journey by himself, and I was heading on a different journey.   

Every single day of my life I wish that our journeys could have been the same.